


Don't Think About It

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Masturbation, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-09
Updated: 2011-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-21 05:08:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets some quality time in the Impala with some thoughts he maybe shouldn't be having.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Think About It

**Author's Note:**

> I should not be allowed to be alone with the internet. I get strange ideas.

This used to be easier. Then again, Dean thinks, shifting his bare feet for traction on the frame around the back passenger side window, he also used to be a lot smaller. Not that he minds getting taller by any stretch of the imagination – it’s pretty much flat out awesome – but it seems like he used to be a lot bendier than he used to be. Bendier’s a word, right? He makes a mental note to ask Sammy later. And to come up with some excuse for why he’s asking, because this is so not something he ever plans on telling his little brother about.

 _Jesus, fuck, don’t think about Sammy right now. You big fucking pervert._

But yeah, this just doesn’t work nearly as well as it did when he was smaller, too much of his body trying to shove into too little space. On the other hand, before now it was a lot harder to get Dad to let him take the car out on his own, so he had to try and pull this off in shadowy little garages out behind their rentals or – just that once when he was really desperate – with his father asleep in the front seat and his little brother crammed in too close beside him. And what the hell is Sammy doing in his head again, damnit? _Stop thinking about your brother, sicko!_

Shifting his feet upward another couple of inches, slowly walking his way up the inside of the car while he wiggles his upper body closer to the door makes his spine strain weirdly, hot-cool stretch like it wants to pop or something but it doesn’t. He can’t get tipped up quite the way he needs to, not as close to completely vertical as he needs to be to get the wet tip of the hard-on poking out of his open jeans poised just right over his mouth.

And don’t give him that look, ok, it’s not that weird. Lots of guys probably do it. Hell, he’s even heard stories about guys who can suck their own dicks, which would be both totally freaky and maybe the most awesome thing ever. Unless he ditches a couple of vertebrae, Dean doesn’t really see that happening for him though, so it’s kinda beside the point.

With his shoulders pressed down into the vinyl seat, his head bent at an angle that chops his breath off in short tight bursts, his ass doesn’t quite touch the Impala’s ceiling, the window taking most of his weight instead, cool glass shocking on the naked skin of his lower back. Getting his hand into position is a bitch with his knees bunched up nearly around his shoulders, but he manages, tugging with quick, stilted strokes over the dark length of the shaft.

There’s a cloudy drop of precome forming at the slit, visible as it swells to a long, clinging droplet glinting in the muted light filtering in through the windows. He hasn’t been at it long enough for the panes to have gone foggy, probably won’t get a chance to at the rate he’s going, how full and swollen the ache at the base of his cock feels already. His mouth comes open automatically as the drop of fluid stretches out, dripping down to hit him mostly at the corner of his lip. The mild, salty tastes bursts through his mouth from the little bit that makes it inside, tongue snaking out to gather the rest as the fingers of his free hand sweep it up.

He likes this, ok? So what. It doesn’t make him gay or something to like the way it tastes, the way it feels when it turns his tongue slick for a second before it melts and mellows for him to swallow down. It doesn’t as long as it’s his own he’s swallowing and not… not anybody else’s. Not that he’s ever thought about swallowing anybody else’s because he wouldn’t and he doesn’t want to, so there.

His hips buck into the grip of his fist instinctually and almost overbalance him, this close to doing a backward rollover and ending up on the other side of the car. Hand shooting out, he manages to catch himself though, that tiny spike of adrenalin only pushing him closer.

It would be a lot easier to do this somewhere else, like a bed or even the bathroom – _fuck, not the bathroom_ \- but there’s just something about the car. It just feels more right in the car. Ok, Sam might, maybe have a point about Dean being a little bit obsessed with the Impala, but c’mon! If there has ever been a hotter automobile made, Dean sure as hell hasn’t seen it and now that he’s officially allowed to drive, it’s basically part his, so obsession seems totally reasonable and fair. Sammy can shut his pie hole.

 _Damn it! Quit thinking about Sam._ Hot chicks. Claudia Schiffer. Cindy Crawford. Pamela Anderson. All three of them. All three of them washing the Impala in wet, white t-shirts. _Not Sam._ Not Sam making that shocked, pained, pathetic sound that had sent Dean rushing into the bathroom to help him. Not Sam standing in front of the sink with his skinny little dick out and his cheeks bright pink and splotchy like after he’s been running. Not Sam with his tiny kid hands covering in drippy, cloudy slickness that looks more like Dean’s precome than the real deal even though that’s what it has to be. _Not Sam, not Sam, not Sam._

His fist is a blur on his cock and the tension is coiling up close to the surface, want licking at him like sharp tongues of flame and _oh fuck it_ , it’s Sam. It’s Sam when the next splash of precome hits his lips reminding him to keep them parted as he laps up the thin fluid. It’s a splash of Sam’s watery little boy load on his lips, not part of his own body, the bitter taste so familiar because they’re so much alike, because he’s Dean’s fucking baby brother. It’s going to his knees in front of Sammy that’s got him this hard, ready to go off any second. Sam’s fingers he’s licking clean instead of his own after they tease over the head, pushing him so close, so close. Sam cutting off his air as he pushes into Dean’s mouth, hard again already because he wants this just as bad as Dean does, not the fucked up position he’s got himself angled at that’s stealing his breath. Sam, just Sammy, his Sammy.

He feels his lips make the shape, only barely hears the panted words over the roar of blood pounding in his ears, his own voice ragged around, “Come for me, babyboy.” And he does, sensation slamming into him like a wrecking ball, miserable, wasted sound bursting out of him as the first branding-hot pulse of come catches him on the chin, the next and the next and the next making straight into his mouth, filling him up, thick and bitter like the bile rising up in his throat as he imagines what Sam’s face must look like when he loses it.

Alright, he has to admit as he lets himself slide out bonelessly over the seat, that was maybe a little gay. Maybe moreso when swallowing the wad of his own come sends a hot skitter down his spine.

His muscles are shaking from the exertion, fine little trembles as he tries to cool down and work up the energy to get himself put back together. Glancing at his watch, he’s only got about half an hour before Sammy’s going to start wondering where Dean is. They’re going to need something for dinner, too, sooner rather than later. Maybe he’ll pick up a pizza, buy himself a little more time to try and figure out how to have the ‘everybody does it’ talk with Sam without wanting to crawl into a hole and die. Or popping a boner. Or offering to show him how it’s done.

This is crap Dean’s not supposed to have to deal with. He’s never really jived with Sam’s whole ‘why can’t we be normal’ trip, but times like right now he gets it because there’s probably not a lot of normal guys his age who have to worry about becoming a pedophile over their little brothers.

That still doesn’t keep him from curling up in the back seat the way Sammy likes to when they end up driving through the night and pressing his face against the vinyl to image in can smell his brother there.


End file.
